


Keep Your Eyes on the Stars (and Your Feet on the Ground)

by rosewiththorns



Series: A Star is Born [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Becoming a Star, Being the Best, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brett reminds Pavel that even if he is the best player in the NHL, he can still be better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Eyes on the Stars (and Your Feet on the Ground)

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during the 2003-2004 season like the rest of the series.

“Keep your eyes on the stars, and your feet on the ground.”—Theodore Roosevelt 

Keep Your Eyes on the Stars (and Your Feet on the Ground) 

“You’re neck-and-neck with Jagr and Sakic for the NHL scoring lead,” Brett remarked, as he combed through Pavel’s hair with his fingers, the January winds howling like wolves at the full moon against the glass panes of the hotel room where Pavel was kneeling for him somehow making the scene seem cozier by comparison with the frigid weather outside. “Satisfied?” 

“Is trick question.” Pavel focused keen eyes on Brett’s like lasers as if to declare that he was too clever to fall into such an obvious trap even in his (distant) second language. “I not ever satisfied, Brett.” 

“Very smart.” Brett rapped Pavel on the shoulder for emphasis. “You can be better.” 

“Brett, mad?” Resembling a whipped puppy exiled to the doghouse, Pavel cocked his head to the right, and Brett, remembering all the occasions Pavel had sheepishly posed this inquiry to Brett on the bench whenever he was afraid that Brett might be seething over a bungled offensive opportunity, could feel his heart becoming as soft as a chocolate chip cookie just removed from the oven. 

“I swear that you only ask that question to prevent me from getting mad.” Laughing, Brett gave Pavel’s shoulder a slap. “Anyway, no, I’m not mad at you, and you know damn well that I almost never am, Pav. I just don’t want you to be satisfied, because you might be the best player in the NHL right now—“ 

“Not best player,” protested Pavel, strawberries blossoming on his cheeks in a testimony to the embarrassment he clearly felt at what he apparently defined as extravagant praise. That was a paradox with Pavel, reflected Brett, since while Pavel was naturally lacking in confidence to such a degree that he needed others to express faith in him before he could believe in himself, he was also extremely reluctant to accept compliments as he judged himself to always be requiring significant improvement. Gentle prodding—reminding him that if he continued to work hard, he would do great—frequently was the only kind of praise he could tolerate without some attempt to deflect it. “Just have best teammates.” 

“Zip it, kid.” Brett cracked his knuckles against Pavel’s temples in a mild reprimand. “I don’t want to be interrupted, especially not with that modest mumbo-jumbo. Now, as I was saying before you started spouting that nauseating effort to discredit your own achievements, you may be the best player in the whole NHL right now, which is cool and all, but I know that you can be better.” 

“How, Brett?” From another young player, this question might have broken the insolence scale, but from Pavel it rang with pure sincerity. That, Brett often thought, was one of Pavel’s most incredible gifts: he was always open to learning, and he picked up on new teachings swiftly as a fair weather friend fleeing in a torrential downpour. Time was never wasted explaining stuff to him, which Brett appreciated, since time seemed to be passing faster with every season he spent in the NHL. 

“How many goals have you scored in the last sixteen games?” Brett traced the shell of Pavel’s ear. 

Pavel’s eyes became as abstract as the paint spatters that claimed to be modern art for a moment as he calculated a figure, and then he replied, “Three.” 

“Exactly.” Brett nodded as he continued to stroke around Pavel’s ear. “You have a shot that’s more wicked than you think. It’s very deceptive to goalies. Not to state the excruciatingly obvious, but you’d score more goals if you shot more, Pav.” 

“I will do my best.” Pavel nodded, filing the lesson away in the mental Rolodex he seemed to keep of such hockey tips from Hall of Famers. “Promise.” 

“I’ll bet you will. You’re a good kid.” Brett squeezed Pavel’s shoulders in a hug. “Just remember that the most fun part of hockey is getting a goal, and you’ll be fine.” 

“There you wrong.” Pavel shook his head. 

“Oh?” Brett arched an eyebrow. “That’s impossible. I’m never wrong. The sun will explode before that happens, kid.” 

“False.” Pavel’s face was a sly smirk. “Best part of hockey is an assist. Get to create something out of nothing.” 

“You’re crazy like a mad artist.” Both teasing and affectionate, Brett tapped Pavel’s nose with a finger. “Don’t worry, though. All the lunatics become stars, Pav.” 

“I not star.” Pavel snorted at the absurdity of applying such a glamorous term to himself. “And never will be.” 

“Be patient,” drawled Brett, adopting a mock-serious expression. “Stars can take ten million years to be born, although I hope that your gestation is quicker, since I’d love to see you burning brightly before I die.” 

That last clause was true enough that Brett’s throat would clog like a malfunctioning toilet if he contemplated it at any length. Now that he was slowing down and approaching retirement, he wasn’t concerned with padding his career statistics and was more worried about his legacy—what he would leave behind him when he left the league. Pavel made him believe that he would live on in the game after he had hung up his skates, and that knowledge made him feel both young and old at the same time, a breathing oxymoron. 

“Stars light the universe.” Pavel’s chin lifted as he argued. “I nothing.” 

“Stars are gas, dust, and chunks of old stars.” Brett waved a dismissive palm. “There’s nothing so amazing in that. You could say that stars are nothing, too.” 

“If I a star—“ Pavel nudged Brett in a warning that he was about to be the target of a dazzling one-liner—“then chunks of old stars in me from you and Igor.” 

“I’m not that old.” Brett brought his eyebrows together in a glower to conceal how flattered he was by the idea of being such an influence on Pavel by assuming a gruff air. “Iggy is, though, so you be sure to tell him that, Pav, and then brace yourself for him blowing a gasket.”


End file.
